


And That Word Must Be Clear

by doomcanary



Series: Melinna [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderfuck, Genderplay, M/M, Magical Accidents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-30
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:30:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1338823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin learns the hard way that magic has a mind of its own. And sometimes, a body too...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Merlin?”

“Go away!”

“You've been in there three hours, Merlin, is everything all right?”

“Fine! Go away!”

“You don't sound all right, Merlin,” says Gaius, his tone growing suspicious. “Open the door.”

There's a scuffle and a thud, and then the door opens a crack, showing one of Merlin's blue eyes, and a bit of floppy dark hair. It looks longer than it did this morning.

“See! I'm fine. Now leave me alone!” says Merlin. “There's something I have to -”

Gaius unceremoniously shoulders the door wide open.

“I don't believe it,” he says, putting a hand over his face.

“It's not my fault!” Merlin wails, wrapping his arms across his chest. “I swear I didn't know this would happen!”

Gaius gives Merlin a distinctly skeptical look – but for once, the boy seems to be telling the truth.

Well, the former boy, anyway. Merlin is still wearing the same well-worn shirt and neck-cloth, but from the waist down he's bare-legged, and the reason for that is undoubtedly the soft curves that his thighs now exhibit, which have no chance at all of fitting into clothes made for an eighteen-year-old male. There's also a reason – more accurately, two reasons - why he has his arms wrapped around his torso like that, not that it's actually doing much to conceal them.

“Merlin, you idiot,” he says exasperatedly. “What were you trying to do?”

Merlin turns, and goes to pick up the magic book from his bed – then stops abruptly, glances over his shoulder at Gaius, and bends rather precariously using his knees, instead of his waist.

“Use a blanket, for goodness' sake,” says Gaius. “How d'you think skirts are made?”

Merlin picks one up, and knots it awkwardly around himself. He hands the book to Gaius, already open at a page with an intricate drawing below the words.

“That one,” he says.

Gaius looks down at it, and raises his eyebrows.

“Look, I just wanted to try it, OK? To see if I could!”

“These two words,” says Gaius, his gnarled finger tapping the page. “Did you run them together?”

“I said _webba ēst_ ,” says Merlin. His hair – now shoulder-length - stirs a bit, as if there's a breeze; Gaius shakes his head. The boy's power is truly astounding.

“I very much doubt that,” is what he says, rather tartly. “What does _bregdan_ mean, in the language of magic?”

“Change.”

“No, it does not. It means 'weave'. The implication of change is purely metaphorical. So the action of the spell is one of weaving, and naturally _this_ word is related to the word for 'weaver', which, if you run it together with _ēst_ and then go on to the r _here_ , sounds remarkably similar to _webbestre_ , which means?”

“A witch.”

“A female weaver. Now, what have you learnt from that?”

“Um... I won't do it again?” Merlin gives Gaius that smile he uses when he hasn't understood a word, and expects to be forgiven anyway. Gaius gives him a long-suffering look.

“You didn't say “show me the finest details of the Weaving”, Merlin - which I might add is an extremely advanced spell and not at all suitable for casual experiments. You said “weave me a female weaver”. And you didn't say whether you wanted her woven _for_ you, or _from_ you.”

“Oh,” says Merlin.

 

Gwen, being the best seamstress around and also Merlin's closest friend, is their first stop. She goes round-eyed at the sight of Merlin, blushing furiously in his makeshift skirt, and then claps her hands over her mouth and giggles helplessly.

“It's not _that_ funny,” says Merlin, though his own mouth is quirking a bit.

“Oh I don't know,” said Gaius. “I always wanted a daughter.”

Merlin scowls.

Their first problem is that none of Gwen's clothes fit Merlin. He's still taller than her, broader in the hips too, but actually narrower in the waist.

“I have a bad feeling,” says Gwen, “that one of Lady Morgana's spare gowns would fit you perfectly.”

“You are _joking_ ,” says Merlin. “I'm not wearing velvet!”

“She's got just your colouring,” says Gwen. “They'll really suit you. Go on, try it – aren't you the least bit curious?”

“I'm not staying like this!” says Merlin. “I'll just – stay here until I'm back the way I was.”

“Which, knowing your talent for making mistakes, could be days,” says Gaius. “We can't have you freezing to death in the meantime. Gwen, go and get whatever won't be missed.”

Gwen comes back with a ridiculously large pile of clothes over her arm, and she's just about to march into Merlin's room and start dressing him when he realises this, and stops in the doorway in horror.

“There's no way I'm undressing in front of you!” he says. “I'm not a girl!”

Gwen looks him up and down. “Could have fooled me,” she says.

“No way. Give me – whatever it is that goes on first, then you can do the rest.”

Gwen hands him a white linen thing, and it looks enough like a shirt that Merlin thinks he can figure it out. He's rather surprised that it doesn't seem to have a front, but Gwen barely seems to notice it as she bustles in with the rest of the pile.

“I thought it'd fit,” she says, eyeing him critically; it's nothing like the way she usually looks at him, and he finds it a bit odd. “Now, lift up – this is one of her last year's gowns, before everyone started wearing stays, it should be a lot more comfortable.”

“Stays?” says Merlin, muffled under a vast expanse of dark blue fabric.

“Like a really tight doublet, only without sleeves, and it has reeds in it to stiffen it and it laces up at the back. Makes you look more busty.”

“What a strange idea,” says Gaius. “Nobody ever wore things like that in my day.”

“Gaius!” says Merlin, at the exact same moment Gwen does.

“Sorry, sorry,” says Gaius, not sounding it at all, and goes back to his lab.

Gwen manages to womanhandle Merlin into the dress, and goes round the back of him to lace it up. Merlin looks down, and blinks at the way it sits perfectly over the largely frontless shirt-thing, so you can hardly see the white at all. Then Gwen pulls the laces tight, and Merlin's eyes widen as he realises he's got a cleavage.

“There,” says Gwen, coming round the front again. “Not bad, actually.”

“I've got -” says Merlin in a strangled voice, gesturing at his neckline.

“Doesn't it fit?”

“No – I mean – they're -”

Gwen is looking like she's about to start laughing again. “What, Merlin?”

“They're – really, er - “

“Nice?”

Merlin gives her an anguished look.

“You're definitely still a boy,” Gwen says.

 

Downstairs in the lab, Gaius has half the books in the place spread out over the tables, mortars and alembics stacked up haphazardly to clear a space.

“Any luck?” says Merlin hopefully.

“Not as yet,” says Gaius thoughtfully, and then looks up. “Oh, don't you look lovely. Well done, Gwen.”

“Lovely?” says Merlin, aghast.

“What would you like me to say, that you look like a she-goat?” Gaius retorts. “Get to work, unless you want to stay like this.”

Merlin does, with a will.

It's getting late, and the sky outside is darkening, when Merlin hears footsteps come thumping up to the door, and it bursts open and bangs against the wall.

“Where on earth is that idiot Merlin?” says Prince Arthur, filling up the doorway almost completely and looking irritatedly around the room. Merlin and Gaius both get up automatically; Merlin is just about to step forwards when he catches sight of his unfamiliar sleeve, remembers, and goes stock still.

“I'm afraid he's not available, sire,” says Gaius tactfully.

“What? What do you mean, not available? Hasn't the useless little -”

Gaius clears his throat pointedly, and glances at Merlin. Arthur's gaze follows him, and lights on Merlin's face. It promptly drops down to about cleavage level, and doesn't work its way up again anywhere near as fast. Merlin is instantly annoyed, even though he's been distracted by it himself at least three times in the last hour.

“I do apologise, my Lady,” says Arthur smoothly, stepping into the room and bowing – actually _bowing_ – to Merlin. “I hadn't realised I was interrupting a consultation.”

“You're not,” says Merlin, without thinking. In the corner of his eye, Gaius winces.

“Oh?” says Arthur, sounding intrigued. He gives Merlin an unmistakable smile; it's the one he uses when he thinks he's going to pull. Merlin's irritation redoubles, and part of him starts wondering how he's going to get his own back for this.

“You never mentioned a new assistant, Gaius.”

“Indeed not, sire,” says Gaius. “This is -”

There's the slightest pause as Gaius fumbles for a name. And in it, Merlin suddenly has an idea.

“Melinna,” he says, his mind working overtime. “A distant cousin of the Lady Morgana, in fact. I'm visiting.”

Arthur looks surprised, then marches over, comes to a kind of attention, and this time when he bows he also lifts Merlin's hand and kisses it. Behind Arthur, Gaius puts his hand over his face. Merlin smirks.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Melinna,” says Arthur.

“Likewise, your highness,” says Merlin. He has no idea how to curtsy the way the court ladies do, so he bends his knees a bit and hopes. It seems to come off OK.

“Well,” says Arthur, still wearing that insufferably smug smile, “I'm sorry to have interrupted you.”

“Oh, it's nothing,” says Merlin. “I've only just arrived, really. Gaius here is an old friend of my father's, and he asked me to drop by and pass on his best wishes.”

Gaius gives a strained smile. Merlin can tell he's going to get a dressing-down when Arthur leaves, but he doesn't care; he's enjoying this.

“Excellent,” says Arthur. “I'm afraid I must be about business this afternoon, but I trust you'll be joining us for dinner tonight? We brought down a very fine boar this morning, and he'll be taking pride of place.”

Merlin smiles thinly at the ill-concealed boast. “I'd be delighted to,” he says.

Arthur inclines his head, and turns to leave. Gaius glares daggers behind his back, then abruptly smooths his face as Arthur turns his head.

“Gaius, if you do see Merlin, send him to my chambers, will you? My hunting gear is revolting.”

“That's the problem, sire,” says Gaius. “I'm afraid Merlin is ill.”

Arthur stops.

“Ill?” he says. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“No more than usual, sire,” says Gaius, with a certain weariness in his tone. “He should be back to his old self in no time.”

“See to it, physician,” says Arthur, and then he's gone.

 

“Merlin,” hisses Gaius, “what on earth do you think you are doing?”

“Well,” says Merlin. “If I'm stuck like this till we fix it, I might as well have some fun. Did you see the way he was staring at my -” he waves a hand in the general area of his chest.

“In case you haven't noticed, his highness looks at every woman under thirty like that,” says Gaius. “Don't start thinking you're special.”

“I don't know,” says a lilting voice from the doorway. “Wouldn't you say it's about time all those ladies had some revenge?”

“Morgana,” says Gaius, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I hope you don't mind,” says Gwen anxiously. “Morgana noticed her dress was gone, and –“

“And Gaius knows very well that I've been seeing visions since I was ten,” says Morgana, sweeping in in a flutter of chiffon sleeves. “I don't know why he thought I wouldn't know about you, Merlin. I must say, though – I wasn't expecting you to look quite so good in my clothes.”

“Er,” says Merlin. “About that – I, er - “

“ _Melinna_ here,” finishes Gaius, “has just informed Prince Arthur that she is your distant cousin.”

“Well now,” says Morgana, a mischievous light in her eyes. “This should be good.”

 

At dinner that night, Merlin finds himself seated next to Morgana, only a couple of places down from Arthur himself. It's rather a step up for a minor noble, and he has a shrewd suspicion what's behind it – which is amply confirmed when Arthur makes a point of leaning round his neighbours, and addressing Merlin directly.

“How's the boar?” he says.

“Very much as I expected,” mutters Morgana.

“Not bad at all, your highness,” says Merlin. “A little tough, perhaps. Was it a long chase?”

“Oh, epic,” says Arthur, and off he goes, punctuating his tale with grand gesticulations, at least one of which slops mead onto his immediate neighbour Lord Grey. Merlin bats his eyelashes and listens attentively, having already stuffed himself with as much of the frankly delicious roast boar as his outfit will permit him to hold. And a couple of minutes later, he strikes gold; Uther shifts in his chair, there's a lull in the conversation, and suddenly Arthur's voice is the only one still talking. When Uther clears his throat, Arthur nearly jumps out of his skin, and sits up so fast he spills his mead again.

“Nicely done,” murmurs Morgana, as Uther calls for the next remove.

 

By the time the meal is finally cleared away, Merlin is feeling very smug indeed, watching his fellow servants do all the scurrying back and forth that's usually his job. He's also a little bit mellow; the mead is fairly strong stuff, and his alcohol tolerance seems to be a bit different now.

“Perhaps some dancing, father?” suggests Arthur blandly to the King. “I know Lady Grey enjoys it, should we not please our guests?”

Uther gives Arthur a freezing look. “If you wish to entertain yourself with such frivolities,” he says. “Myself and Lord Grey will be discussing matters of state.”

“Splendid,” says Arthur, deliberately ignoring the King's tone. “We'll use the second hall.” He beckons a servant, who trots across to the minstrels, who nod; half of them carry on playing, while the other half pick up lutes and fiddles and vanish through the servants' door.

“I hope you can dance,” says Morgana.

“Badly,” says Merlin.

“That should be fine for Arthur, then.”

Merlin has seen a Prince Arthur charm offensive in operation a number of times, but until now, he's never been on the receiving end of one. Arthur is, to say the least, attentive – Merlin doesn't think he's ever been touched so much in his life, and certainly not in public – but mostly, he won't _shut up_. Merlin has heard every single one of his hunting'n'fighting anecdotes before, mostly in scraps over the heads of crowds and punctuated by “Merlin, get me another ale” - and he's almost cross-eyed with boredom when Morgana catches his eye, and jerks her head towards the dancefloor.

“Would you care to dance, your highness?” he asks.

“A bold lady,” says Arthur, grinning. It looks much more genuine than the “aren't I amazing” look he's had up till now. “By all means.” He offers Merlin his arm, and Merlin blushes as he takes it, reminded for a fleeting moment how weird all this is.

Morgana isn't completely right about Arthur's dancing, but then she's not completely _wrong_ , either. It's not that he's bad per se, it's just that he has a rather unusual style. Merlin, who's already well used to getting out of the Prince's way at short notice, seems to have learnt enough to manage the same thing on the dancefloor, and Arthur compliments his dancing after a couple of measures.

“Oh, I had an excellent teacher,” smiles Merlin. “Tailor-made for the job.” He giggles; the dancing's making him sweat a bit, and he must have had more mead than he thought, because it's really starting to go to his head now. They're still dancing; this is one of the new dances where you stand close to your partner instead of taking them by the hand, and Arthur's doing it exactly right, which means he has one hand on the small of Merlin's back. It's oddly distracting; he's not used to being touched like this, especially not by Arthur. He's also not used to having round, soft breasts, that are pressed rather tightly against his dress and keep brushing Arthur's doublet as they turn. It feels unexpectedly good.

“You look flushed,” says Arthur, with a rather smug look. “Would you like to take some air?”

“That might be nice, actually,” says Merlin, forgetting for a moment that he's a lady, and Arthur's a prince.

Arthur walks him to the balcony at the far end of the hall; a couple of people give them knowing looks as they go. Another couple are already out there, but they catch sight of Arthur and disappear back inside. The night air is cool on Merlin's damp skin, and clears his head a bit; but he's definitely mellow now. The stars look rather soft and fuzzy, and Arthur's hair in their pale light is a little silvery halo round his head.

“Is something amiss, lady?” asks Arthur quietly. He's standing rather close; Merlin's breasts are brushing his doublet again.

“No, no,” says Merlin, a little hazily. “It's just that everyone always talks about how handsome Prince Arthur is. I'd never really seen it until now.”  
]  
There's a moment's pause; then Arthur takes a step back, and tilts his head.

“You're a fascinating woman, Lady Melinna,” he says. Merlin blinks, and remembers who he's supposed to be.

“It looks like I am,” he says, and is surprised when Arthur laughs.

“No, I've never met a woman like you,” he says. “I do hope you're staying a while.”

“I don't exactly know,” says Merlin. He's not quite sure in the dim light, but he thinks Arthur looks disappointed. He is pretty sure, however, that Arthur takes both his hands, and some of the stars disappear as he comes close to Merlin again.

“Then perhaps it's not too forward of me,” says the prince, “to ask you to come to my chambers later on?”

“I'm not sure,” says Merlin, dimly aware that that was a bit crass even for Arthur, “that that would be very clever.”

“In fact,” says Morgana's voice sharply, “I think it would be very unwise, since my cousin is clearly rather tired and emotional after a long journey, and it would be extremely unfair for a prince to take advantage of his rank.” Merlin feels a small hand grab his arm, and shoots a dizzy smile at Arthur as Morgana leads him away.

“Night, sire,” he says, waving. He thinks Arthur shakes his head in wonderment as he goes. He's smiling vaguely as they get back into the room; Morgana glances at him, and rolls her eyes.

“You're completely pissed, aren't you?” she says.

“I am a bit tipsy,” says Merlin, and grins again.

“I've got a pick-me-up in my chambers, you're coming with me,” says Morgana, marching him out of the hall and down a corridor. Merlin quickly loses track of the hallways and turnings, even though he knows perfectly well how to get to where they're going from where they've been – or does he mean where they've been from where they got to, or – Morgana is drawing a key out of a little silk pouch on her belt, and opening a heavy door.

“Oh dear,” says Gwen, coming over to help Morgana as she steers a swaying Merlin towards a chair.

“Hello, Gwen,” says Merlin. “I'm tipsy.”

“Would you get us some hot water for coffee, pet?” says Morgana.

“Already done,” says Gwen. She wanders out of Merlin's view, and shortly after brings a steaming pot over, on a tray with two little cups.

“Will you need a hand with him later?” she asks Morgana.

“I think I can manage from here.” says Morgana, with a smile. “Get some sleep, you look like you could do with it.” She picks up the silver pot and pours something dark, pressing the cup into Merlin's hands as Gwen lets herself out through a concealed door.

“What's this?” says Merlin, looking hazily down at it. “Smells nice.”

“Coffee,” says Morgana. “Fabulously expensive, and about the same colour as the blokes who sell it.”

“Ooh,” says Merlin. He's seen Moorish merchants in the market below Camelot; they look like Gwen's dad, only much more foreign. He takes a sip, and pulls a face. “Doesn't taste nice.”

“Drink it,” says Morgana. “It'll wake you up.”

“Okay,” says Merlin, with a grin. He likes being drunk; everything's easy.

The bitter black stuff does seem to make a difference; the room comes back into focus after a while, and he's not exactly sober, but he's not quite so confused, either.

“It's a good job I caught you in time,” said Morgana. “How do you think you'd have felt if you woke up in Arthur's bed?”

Merlin stops to think about this one; the memory of dancing with Arthur is a bit hazy, but he distinctly recalls feeling good about it.

“I don't know,” he says. “I mean... I'm not a _bloke_... but I suppose I'm not a girl, either. And he's, kind of...”

“You're joking, right?” says Morgana. “He's a clumsy eejit.”

“He's not that bad,” says Merlin. “He's not even a bad dancer, he just keeps forgetting he isn't doing sword drills. Look, he kept going like this in the gavotte.” He gets up and demonstrates: one step to the side, then another forward. “That's from training, you're supposed to parry, and then _slash_ , like this – what?”

Morgana is laughing, one hand wrapped round the dainty coffee cup.

“Merlin,” she says, “do you have any idea what you look like?”

Merlin looks down, and remembers.

“A wizard in a dress?” he hazards.

Morgana gets up from the table, walks over to him and kisses him.

“Bloody stupid,” she says. “And beautiful.”

“Oh,” says Merlin. Morgana smells of spices and coffee, and now it's not Arthur's red doublet pressing against his breasts, it's Morgana's velvet dress, and her breasts, and this is just weird. In the nicest possible way.

“Do you mind if I kiss you back?” he says.

“What do you think I did that for, charity?”

“Okay,” he grins, and cups her face in his hands.

Morgana's mouth is warm, and full of the bitter taste of coffee; her lips are wonderfully soft as they slide over Merlin's, and her tongue, when it brushes his lips, gives him a little shock. He puts his arms round her waist, and she slides one hand up and onto his breast, and presses her thumb on the nipple. It's hard.

“That's nice,” says Merlin on a sigh, as it sends a tingle through him. He doesn't feel it the same way he used to; it's not going straight to his cock. Which, well, he hasn't got any more. It spreads out and warms all through him, and he presses closer to Morgana, strokes the soft curve of her lovely arse through the velvet.

“You know what's nicer?” says Morgana.

“What?”

“Same thing, less clothes.”

“Oh, yes.”

She turns him round, and deftly unlaces the blue dress. It slips off much more easily then it went on, and falls to the ground.

“Tart,” she says, pulling him back against her. “No stays? No wonder you liked dancing with Arthur and his wandering hands.”

“Less talk, more... yeah, that.” Morgana's playing with his nipples again. “Aren't you going to take yours off?”

“Maybe.”

Merlin turns round, and gives her a level look. She smiles.

“Go ahead,” she says.

Merlin kneels down in the loose shift, and lifts up the hem of Morgana's skirt.

“It doesn't come off that way,” she says.

“I know,” says Merlin, and kisses her thigh gently. It's not spices she smells of now; there's a hint of something much more exciting. He strokes the smooth skin, realises how much smaller his hands are, loves the way it feels like there's more of her to explore. Loves the way not even noble girls wear anything under their shifts. Not like men, breeches and then underclothes under that; just lovely, open space. He kisses her other thigh, works his way up. She makes a little sound as he gets near the top.

“Oh,” he says, letting her skirt drop again. “If you insist.”

“You're a tease.”

“Turn around.”

Once he's got the hang of the knot, it doesn't take him that long. Morgana's still laughing at him, though. He slides off her dress, manages the stays with far more panache, then slips her shift off one shoulder and tries kissing that. It's good. He moves round to the front; pulls her shift down further, and experiments with his mouth and her breast. She makes that noise again.

“Do you want to take that off?” he asks.

“After you,” she says, and takes hold of his shift. He shivers – not just at the cool air, but because he's never been naked like this before. Morgana looks him up and down with hooded eyes.

“Lovely,” she says, and takes off her own shift.

She's perfect; pale, warm where his hands touch her hips, the faintest rosy flush around her nipples, and a dark triangle of curly hair, that fascinates him, that he can't look away from, between her thighs.

“I want you,” he says.

She walks over to the chair, sits down, and spreads her thighs. Something pink flashes in that dark, dark hair.

“Come here, Merlin,” she says. He goes, like he's bewitched, kneels down, presses his face to that amazing, fascinating place. She smells like the sea, like nothing he's ever smelled before. He kisses her; feels slickness against his lips. He puts out his tongue and licks it. The taste makes a wave of heat roll over him, his whole body, and now he does feel something between his legs; like some part of him is trying to grip something that isn't there. It makes him moan, caught between Morgana and himself.

“That's it, Merlin,” she says quietly. “Just like that. Lick me.”

Merlin strokes his tongue over the slick, smooth flesh; the taste suffuses him, makes him want to bury his tongue in it. He does. Morgana groans, and pushes herself forward. She starts to move against him, rocking her hips. Merlin feels that clenching again; his hand slides up his own thigh, feels – oh, wow – feels soft hair, and swollen flesh, and when he pushes his fingers down into -

“Oh fuck,” he moans, and shivers hard.

“Merlin?”

Merlin sits back, licks his lips, licks Morgana off them.

“I'm really, really...” He glances down at his hand, sliding slowly back and forth between his thighs.

“Show me.”

There's a beautiful patterned carpet under the table, soft under Merlin's bare knees; he slips to one side, unfolds his legs, spreads them. He leans back on the other hand, spreads his legs wide. Morgana looks down, watches him touch himself, then slides off the chair and crawls over him to kiss him. She pulls back and back, then lifts his hand away and puts her mouth in its place.

Merlin gasps, and his arm shakes, so he lets himself fall back onto the carpet. Morgana's tongue is a dart of pleasure, caressing him over and over, and he can feel himself gripping nothing again; he writhes, and Morgana's fingers lay themselves against him, and then she presses them down and he works out what it is his body wants.

“You want this?” she says.

“Ah,” says Merlin.

Morgana slides her fingers into Merlin, and he's never had any idea that could feel good from the other side, too. He can feel the silky carpet under his spread hands, under his shoulders and his backside as he arches his back up; warm darkness behind his closed eyes, and Morgana, everywhere. Cool heavy hair on his thighs, the sense of her hand, filling that void within him, and the flick and flick and flick of her sharp little tongue – Merlin comes, on a raw moan of ecstasy, shaking and open.

“Merlin, fuck, Merlin,” Morgana says, and he opens his eyes; she's kneeling high, moving sharply, fucking air – air that shimmers, and flickers gold. Merlin sits up, puts his hands on her, feels the magic rippling through her – and takes control. Not magic; him, his mouth, his hand. The magic feeding back into him, telling him, lighting her pleasure up. But even that – he lets it fade, brings himself back into her, into his fingers inside her, sliding, his tongue stroking her, up, and up, and up until she's coming too. She gives a single, deep, throaty cry, and shakes all around him.

 

Merlin wakes in a vast, sumptuous bed, lost in acres of eiderdown; sunlight makes the white linen sheets glow achingly bright. He squints against the light; turns his head, and finds Morgana stirring, sleepy and sly as a cat that's stolen the prize bird. They look at each other for a moment; Merlin wonders why he doesn't have his usual morning glory, and then the night before begins to trickle back. Morgana blinks and smiles; he smiles back.

“Morning,” he says.

Morgana's stretching, when there's a sound from the next room; a bang and a clatter, someone moving about, and not quietly. It must be Gwen. Morgana turns white.

“Shit,” she says. “Shit, shit, shit.” She leaps out of the bed – Merlin is captivated – and grabs a flowing dressing-gown. The door doesn't quite close to, and Merlin hears voices coming from next door.

“- just a servant, of course I am, don't you worry your -”

“Gwennie, please, I wasn't – don't -”

A door slams. Morgana comes back in.

“Ah, fuck,” she says, sitting down on the bed. Merlin sits up, and tugs the covers round himself awkwardly, then tugs them more, because he's forgotten again and left his breasts hanging out.

“I didn't know you and Gwen were... I didn't even know Gwen liked girls,” he says awkwardly.

“Well, it's all a bit moot now,” says Morgana. “I screwed that one up royally.”

“Hey, it could have been worse, it could have been Arthur.”

Morgana gives a wry little half-laugh. “You're one to talk,” she says.

Merlin acknowledges that with a tilt of his head. “I might not think about that too much just yet,” he says.

There's a pause.

“Merlin, look, last night was wonderful, but – I think I need to do some pretty serious crawling to Gwennie now. Would you mind, pet?”

“No, no, I should go anyway,” says Merlin, surprised to find that he doesn't mind, not in the least. “Gaius – oh, crap, Gaius will be livid.”

“Your dress is in there,” says Morgana, nodding at the door.

“Er. I can't lace it up on my own.”

 

Gaius really is going to be livid, since Merlin attracts even more old-fashioned looks, walking through the castle in the broad light of morning in the same clothes he was wearing the night before. It probably doesn't help that he hasn't brushed his hair, either. But somehow he can't really bring himself to feel bad about that; the memory of Morgana's body, warm and forcefully there, keeps bringing a smile to his face. He can hardly even bring himself to be upset about Gwen – it'll all be fine once he's back to normal, anyway, and Morgana is just... well.

“What in heaven's name have you done now?” is Gaius's greeting to him.

“What?” says Merlin in an injured tone. “Why does it have to be something bad?”

“Because it's you,” says Gaius. “And because court ladies don't come swanning home at eight o'clock in the morning looking like they've been pulled through a hedge backwards without attracting a lot of attention. You have your reputation to think about, you know.”

Merlin opens his mouth to reply.

“Don't say a word, I don't want to know,” says Gaius, holding up a hand. “Get yourself into some sort of order, and get back to work on finding that counterspell.”

There's a little mirror in Merlin's room, a fragment of one that got broken in the castle a while back; he looks into it before he changes his clothes, and realises he does actually look pretty dishevelled, and not a little pleased. Rather like he's just been very well fucked, in fact.

Merlin lasts until about three in the afternoon under Gaius's beady eye, and then Arthur wanders in again, looking for him – well, for his servant.

“I'm afraid he's still not well, sire,” says Gaius. “It's turning out to have complications.” He shoots a filthy look at Merlin as he says it.

“Then perhaps I should pay him a visit,” says Arthur. “Fly the flag, and all that. Or scare the idle lout into getting better.”

“I'm not sure that's wise, your highness,” says Gaius, stepping quickly between Arthur and the stairs to Merlin's room. “It could be contagious.”

Arthur looks ever so slightly disappointed for a moment. Then his eyes light on Merlin, and he smiles.

“If there's contagion about, you really shouldn't be keeping poor Lady Melinna here,” he says smugly. “Perhaps you'd care for a walk on the battlements, madame?”

“That would be lovely,” says Merlin, ignoring Gaius's furiously shaking head.

“If Merlin doesn't take a turn for the better soon, I shall start to fear for his life,” mutters Gaius as Merlin passes him.

 

“Are you sure the prince of Albion should be seen with the latest gossip of the castle?” Merlin needles him, once they're out in the sunny air. “Don't you know I was seen this morning bearing the demeanour of a loose woman?”

“As far as the court understands, you spent the night with your cousin Morgana,” says Arthur, perfectly straight-faced. “What could possibly be more innocent than that?”

Merlin glances at him. The blue eyes are cloudless, his expression perfectly smooth – but somehow Merlin knows Arthur's laughing at him.

“Innocent? I can't imagine,” he says, and smiles, out at the birds hovering level with the tops of the walls. Arthur changes the subject, which is unusually tactful for him, and Merlin chats idly about Albion's relations with various neighbouring kingdoms, the unseasonably good weather and the likely effect it'll have on the harvest.

“You seem remarkably well-informed for a lady,” says Arthur.

“I pick up a lot at home,” says Merlin. “All you have to do is listen.”

“I wouldn't have thought a lady would be interested in such tedious affairs.”

Merlin snorts inelegantly. “What am I supposed to do? Sit there all day worrying about clothes?”

He's forgotten again; he was talking about Arthur's boots and doublets, invariably one or both of mud-caked and his problem. Arthur, of course, has no idea; and he's smiling and shaking his head at Merlin again.

“You really are completely unique, Lady Melinna,” he says.

“You have no idea,” says Merlin.

They've made a full circuit of the battlements, and they're at the top of the spiral staircase in the east tower again; Arthur holds out a hand, gesturing for Merlin to go ahead.

Merlin looks at him knowingly.

“I've heard your usual style is to trap a lady half way down, and impugn her virtue,” he says.

Arthur blinks. “I wouldn't dream of it,” he lies. Merlin's heard him bragging about doing exactly that at least three times before. “And anyway, it's impugn her virtue, _your highness_.”

“I'm sorry, sire,” says Merlin, who isn't. But Arthur doesn't touch him on the way down. Merlin cheerfully ignores the part of his mind that wants to know what would have happened if he did.

 

Their walks around the battlements become a daily fixture; Arthur comes to call on Gaius, ostensibly asking after Merlin, Merlin escapes on Arthur's arm, and they talk about whatever for an hour or so. To start with, Merlin does it purely to get away from the frustration of the fruitless research, and because it's at least as much fun to wind Gaius up as it is to tease Arthur; but gradually, Arthur actually stops being boring. Merlin is startled to find that he's actually quite interesting to talk to, as long as he's run out of hunting stories and isn't ordering you about. He steers the conversation towards Uther as often as he can, because hearing the subtle ways Arthur finds to criticise the King without appearing disloyal actually gives him that weird warm feeling again. Arthur's eyes take on a very particular light when he talks about Uther, a kind of rebellious spark, and he draws himself up unconsciously; it makes him look... well, Merlin's not quite sure, but he knows that when Arthur looks like that, it makes him much more conscious that he isn't wearing anything under his skirt.

In fact, sometimes, when he gets back to Gaius's workshop afterwards, he goes up to his room to “freshen up”, closes the door, and leans back on it; when he touches himself, he finds that he's sticky and slick between his legs. And sometimes, he can make himself come thinking about Morgana, soft breasts and firm lips, and sometimes... sometimes it's Arthur, windswept blond hair and that high, angry flush on his cheekbones.

Merlin doesn't think too hard about that afterwards. It's probably just the magic messing with his head. It'll all be back to normal soon enough.

He also starts to suspect that Arthur tells all the “wonderful me” stories to cover up the fact that he's not all that good with girls. He's got perfect manners, of course, Uther saw to that, but he's not really a natural diplomat – and growing up on a diet of Morgana's well-honed sarcasm isn't going to have given him a lot of confidence. He seems to be most at home with Merlin when they've both more or less forgotten that Merlin's a girl. Interestingly, Merlin reflects as they walk down the south wall on a breezy afternoon, he himself really shouldn't have expected to be able to handle Morgana as well as he did. Perhaps he's not as daft as he looks.

“You seem happy today,” says Arthur.

Merlin clears his throat. “Just the weather, sire,” he says. “It is a shame about that servant of yours, isn't it?”

“Merlin?” says Arthur. “Yes, it's dreadful; I can't get anything done without him. Nobody else seems to have any idea at all, and I swear they work at half the pace on purpose.”

Arthur has stopped to lean on the battlements, and Merlin is surprised; Arthur actually looks upset about him not being there.

“I'm sure he'll be better soon,” he says consolingly. “It's a very strange problem, but Gaius is the best there is.”

“Let's hope so,” says Arthur. “I wish I could visit him, really, but if Gaius is right about it being contagious...”

“Well, quite,” says Merlin inanely.

“It's strange,” says Arthur. “I don't mean this as an insult, but you almost remind me of him at times. He's rather... irreverent, a lot like you.”

Merlin thinks of Gwen and Morgana, arguing in subdued voices. Gwen hasn't been near him since; he misses her, and he hates having to let Gaius fasten his clothes.

“Good servants shouldn't be undervalued,” he says.

“Yes,” says Arthur. “One so rarely understands what something is worth when it's always around.”

 

It's a couple of days after that that they finally, _finally_ stumble across the cure, an obscure spell for undoing glamours that happens to have the side-effect of always returning something to its original shape and form. Merlin is just about to say it aloud when Gaius stops him.

“You can't just disappear,” he says. “Not now you've drawn so much attention to yourself. We'll have to send you off on a horse with a nice little retinue, and complicate the whole affair ridiculously. I did warn you, Merlin, but you never listen.”

“I've got a few ideas,” says Merlin. “Give me two days.”

That night, Merlin sneaks out, hidden in a cloak; two brooms float out of the courtyard store at a whispered word, and a clothes horse from the laundry shakes itself, and walks into a stable. Merlin lays a hand on it and murmurs “ _Scēam ācwician_ ,” and a pretty dappled-grey palfrey shakes her head at him and pricks her sharp little ears. He puts a charm on the stable door to make anyone who sees her think she's been here all along, then takes the brooms back to Gaius's workshop, and props them up in the corner of his room.

 

“You can't be leaving so soon,” says Arthur, the wind ruffling his blond hair. It looks just the way it does in Merlin's fantasies, and that's not helping him concentrate.

“I have to,” says Merlin. “My father is an old man, and I've been helping run the estate for a while now.”

Just for a moment, Arthur looks terribly hurt. Then he straightens himself up, and Merlin watches the princely manners kick in.

“Then Camelot will see you off in style,” he says.

“Oh dear,” says Merlin. “I think I might have to borrow something to wear.”

“I'm sure you'll look stunning in anything,” says Arthur gallantly. Merlin gives him a skeptical look.

“There is one piece of good news, though,” he says.

“What's that?”

“According to Gaius, Merlin's finally getting better. He should be back on his feet any day now.”

“Oh,” says Arthur, and Merlin sneaks a glance at him, watching a pleased expression dawn across his face. “Well, that'll make a change.”

Half way down the spiral staircase, Merlin feels a touch on his shoulder, and looks around.

“I was wondering,” said Arthur. “Perhaps, if this is your last night in Camelot...”

“Perhaps I'd like to take you up on that invitation?” says Merlin. “Aren't you pulling rank again?”

“Something tells me that isn't going to work on you,” says Arthur.

“Well, you've got one thing right,” says Merlin. He thinks about it for a minute; really, when all's said and done, has he got anything to lose?

“I don't know,” he says. It is a bit weird, after all. “We'll see.” But he's smiling as he turns away.

 

He is most definitely not smiling when he goes to see Gwen. She's putting laundry away in her father's house, and she freezes solid when she sees Merlin. He leans against the doorpost awkwardly, uncomfortable for once with his new, smaller body, and tucks his hands under his arms, just the way he would have done before.

“I came to tell you,” he says. “I'm, um, leaving. This time tomorrow. And Merlin will be back around then, too. I just... I didn't want to leave it till then to apologise.”

Gwen's shoulders soften a bit, though she still looks wary.

“I had no idea about you and – and her, Gwen, I swear. I'd never have done that to you if I had.”

Gwen turns away.

“It wouldn't be the first time she's done it,” she says. “I don't blame you, Mer – Melinna, she can be pretty aggressive.”

“What?” says Merlin quietly. “She's done that before?”

“Yes. At least once. I don't know whether I'd have noticed, before that.”

“That's not on, Gwen,” he says. “I'm going to have a word with her about that.”

“Merlin, don't -” says Gwen turning round with a pained expression, but Merlin's come up behind her, and he puts his hands on her shoulders.

“Gwen, she did the same thing to me,” he says. “I mean, I didn't mind, I'm a bloke, I don't think like that – but that doesn't mean she wasn't using me, you know? She threw me out, after you left.”

That makes Gwen's face alter, a bit. She must have thought they'd stayed in bed all morning.

“I don't think you were that far wrong, about her treating you like a servant,” says Merlin. “And I may be one too, but I'm not hers. I am going to say something, Gwen.”

Gwen presses her lips together, and then throws her arms round him and hugs him.

“I missed you, you know,” she says tearfully.

“Yeah,” says Merlin, giving her a squeeze. “Me too. It'll be good to be back.”

They stand there like that for a moment, and then Merlin says uncomfortably, “Um, Gwen?”

“What?”

“You can strangle me later,” he says, “but I kind of need to ask a favour. See, I've got into a bit of a mess...”


	2. Chapter 2

Gwen, unsurprisingly, has rather fewer scruples about stealing Morgana's clothes than previously, and this time she does some quick-fire alterations, replacing the burgundy braid with a midnight blue one edged in gold.  
  
“You really ought to try wearing stays under this, it's way better for the style,” she says. Then she grins. “Besides which, Arthur's eyes will pop out, and winding Arthur up is the point, isn't it?”  
  
“I'll try them on,” says Merlin. “But I'm not making promises.”  
  
As it turns out, they're not nearly as uncomfortable as he thought – they're much lighter than a doublet, and they hold him in firmly, but they don't pinch. It feels like someone giving him a bear-hug - like he imagines Arthur's arms would, in fact. As soon as he thinks that, he's distracted all over again by the fact he still hasn't made up his mind about what to do tonight.   
  
But he has to admit they do make rather a difference. Gwen has to take in the waist of the gown a bit, and his cleavage is even more impressive than usual. By the time Gwen's done, it's nearly time for the banquet, and Merlin gives her a kiss on the cheek and thanks her profusely.  
  
“Have fun,” she grins. “And I'll see you tomorrow.”  
  
“Not a moment too soon,” Merlin smiles.  
  
  
Arthur, being the prince, can't walk Merlin into the banquet hall on his arm; he gets Lady Grey instead, the most important female visitor. She has a particularly loud and plummy voice. Merlin goes in with a slightly dotty old fellow from Bayard's kingdom, who keeps asking him how things are in the capital, but he's sitting in the same place he was before, beside Morgana.  
  
“You look wonderful,” says Morgana quietly, as the lesser guests seat themselves.  
  
“Don't start,” says Merlin, shooting her a warning look. “That's not happening again.”  
  
Morgana's face clouds.  
  
“Have it your way,” she says.  
  
“It's not me I'm worried about,” Merlin shoots back. “It's Gwen. You haven't apologised at all, have you?”  
  
“You've talked to her?”  
  
“She is my best friend.”  
  
Morgana looks away, and picks up her goblet to cover what looks to Merlin very like anger. There's a scrape and rumble as everyone stands for Uther, and when they sit down again and the servants start bringing dishes in, Morgana's fingers are white on the fluted silver stem.  
  
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” she hisses under her breath. “I'm a bloody court lady, I can't go wandering down to the smithy whenever I fancy, people would talk. And she won't say a word to me when she comes in, just does exactly what I ask her to and not a thing more. I can't bloody get a word out of her.”  
  
“You can go down to the smithy now and again without stirring up trouble,” says Merlin, just as quietly. “Arthur's in and out of Gaius's workshop all the time. She's your servant, Morgana, not your slave.”  
  
Arthur is slouching unobtrusively back in his chair. Merlin puts one hand behind Morgana, and raises a finger:  _hang on_.  
  
“What's that supposed to mean?”  
  
“That you ought to treat her with a bit of respect now and then. You know, be a bit less like Arthur.”  
  
Morgana gives him such a look at that that he almost crosses his legs on sheer reflex, but then the venom goes out of her face, and she looks away at her plate again. A moment later, she picks up her goblet, and downs the whole thing in one swallow. She's very quiet for the rest of the meal.   
Merlin picks up one of the dainty little meat pies they've been served as a first course, and bites into it, his mind suddenly spinning again.  
  
 _A bit less like Arthur_ ; but then, Arthur hasn't been much like Arthur recently, has he? He's stopped telling boring stories, he hasn't tried to grope Merlin once since Merlin pointed out how tacky it was, and he's even been getting worked up about losing Merlin-the-servant. Arthur's actually not what he looks like at all, when you get a different view of him.   
  
Arthur's tall, and he really is good-looking, and Merlin ought to be honest with himself. Merlin has spent at least two weeks trying to pretend he doesn't come over all girly when he thinks about being pushed up against the wall of the spiral staircase by those tanned, capable hands. Arthur's just the prince everyone says he is, and Merlin fancies the arse off him.  
  
And if it all ends up being too weird, he'll be back to normal tomorrow anyway.   
  
He sits back in his chair, takes a sip of mead – the same honey-rich stuff he'd been aswim with his first night as a woman - and glances towards Arthur. Arthur turns his head a little, checking that Uther's looking away, then raises his eyebrows very slightly, questioning.  
  
Merlin gives a little smile, and an even tinier nod.  
  
  
It's late that night when Merlin sneaks through one of the servants' short cuts, and comes out into a hall not far from Arthur's chambers. As he swings the door gently closed, light footsteps come towards him, and round the corner comes Morgana, pulling up the hood of a dark-coloured cloak. She stops; they exchange looks, hers knowing, his approving. Merlin smiles, and turns away. As he walks down the hall, he hears the door he came through open and close again.  
  
  
Arthur answers his own door, and smiles brilliantly when he sees Merlin. He's unlaced his doublet – Merlin realises with a slight twinge that he always does that when he gets back to his rooms. He was nervous, walking down the hall, but that little flash of Arthur's shirt as he moves makes it melt away, somehow.  
  
“Something to drink?” says Arthur, offering Merlin a goblet.  
  
“Just a bit,” says Merlin. “I don't want to get dragged off by angry cousins again.”  
  
Arthur hands him the goblet, and fills it with something deep red; it's not mead, and Merlin isn't sure he's ever had it before. It's rich and heady, and absolutely delicious.  
  
“This stuff's far too good,” says Merlin. “I'll be under the table if I'm not careful.”  
  
“That would be a terrible waste,” says Arthur. He stands looking down at Merlin for a minute, and Merlin lets himself gaze into Arthur's eyes. His hair's neat and tidy; Merlin wants to mess it up, see it windswept, the way it looks on the battlements. His fingers play with the stem of the goblet, wanting to reach out. Why isn't this weird?  
  
Arthur's turning away, going over to one of the tall-backed chairs that flank the low fire. He sits down, watching Merlin over the rim of his goblet as he drinks. Merlin watches him lower it, walks over to him and sits down on his lap, looking straight into his eyes all the time.  
  
Arthur sets down the goblet on the broad arm of the chair, lays his hand gently against Merlin's cheek, and kisses him. It's gentle, unhurried; it's the Arthur he's got to know, not the one he thought he knew. Arthur's other hand is curled around his waist; Merlin leans into him, brushes his tongue across Arthur's lips, and Arthur tilts his head, and deepens the kiss.  
  
He takes the goblet from Merlin, and puts it down beside his own; without stopping the slow, easy slide of their tongues. Merlin puts his hand on Arthur's shoulder – god, he's big – and lets his legs slide, so he's half-lying on the prince. Arthur rewards him with a steadying hand on his hip; warm, and heavy. It all feels so right.  
  
Merlin breaks the kiss gently; he picks up his wine, and takes a sip. Arthur watches his mouth as he swallows. The warm hand on Merlin's hip strokes down his thigh; Merlin stretches his leg out, and wriggles his toes. The little velvet slipper falls off his foot. He curls it back in again, and Arthur runs one finger down his calf, tucks it under the hem of his dress, and touches his skin.  
  
Merlin kisses him again, just because he has to do something to let Arthur know how good that feels; just a single hand, sliding gently up towards his knee. Arthur smells wonderful, clean and musky, no scent or cologne at all; Merlin breathes him in, and it makes his breasts swell, and press against Arthur's chest.  
  
“Those fashions,” says Arthur, a little roughly. “Shocking.”  
  
“We only do it to impress,” says Merlin, and slides his hand down over the planes of Arthur's chest, kissing him again.  
  
Arthur takes his hand from Merlin's knee, tucks it under his legs and his skirt instead; the arm around his waist tightens and then Arthur stands up, in one fluid movement, lifting Merlin with him.  
  
Merlin gasps. He feels tiny, suspended in mid-air in those steadfast arms; instinctively, he locks his hands around Arthur's neck to steady himself, and Arthur smiles into his eyes. It makes Merlin burn, that glowing warmth spreading all over him; there's no mistaking what Arthur wants, and if it makes him feel like this, he wants it too.  
  
Arthur turns, and carries him to the door that leads to his bedchamber. He kicks it open, and Merlin curls up against him as he ducks through. Then he's being laid down on the silk and velvet coverlet; he's a ribbon of black velvet and blue, on a bed of Arthur's scarlet, and the Pendragon, picked out in gold.  
  
Arthur sheds his red doublet and leans down over Merlin, his shirt loose; Merlin spreads his hands on Arthur's chest, runs them down. He's so warm, and Merlin can feel the muscles moving, and the shapes of Arthur's scars. His fingers come back to the point of Arthur's nipple; Arthur's weight shifts, and he pulls his shirt off over his head.  
  
His skin is amazing. Merlin doesn't bathe him; just lugs the hot water about. So he's never known how soft it is, felt the little scattering of hair under his fingertips. He wraps his hands around Arthur's back, pulls himself up and presses his face against it. Arthur pulls him close, and brushes his hair aside; he feels a long slide as the knot in his dress laces comes loose, and then slowly, the heavy velvet loosens, as the prince undresses him. Merlin kneels on the bed, lifts the dress himself, and wriggles free; Arthur's eyes rake over his body, and then meet his. Merlin leans forward, kisses Arthur, and pushes him down. Arthur makes a little sound, like he's really pleased.  
  
Merlin straddles him, takes his time to smooth his hands over that chest, to bite at the nipples, kiss Arthur's long neck; Arthur's hands are on his hips and his waist, always pressing him down, against the heat and hardness he can feel. He wants to rub himself against it; but the laces of the breeches are rough. He sits back on his heels, runs his hands down Arthur's flat belly, and picks at the knot. Behind him, he hears Arthur toe off his boots; then he sits up, catching Merlin's waist.  
  
“Come now,” he says, in that wonderfully mannered voice; his eyes are twinkling, and the pristine courtesy has a whole different shape now. “That's hardly fair.”  
  
He tugs sharply at the bow that dangles from the bottom of Merlin's stays; it comes loose, and Merlin gives him a wicked grin and obliges, leaning back a little, loosening the laces himself. Arthur leans back on his hands, and watches appreciatively. Merlin lifts them off, and Arthur reaches for him; but he holds up that imperious finger again, and goes back to unlacing Arthur's breeches.   
  
Although, it appears, not every man in the world wears underclothes. There's no flash of white as the gap widens, just more and more skin, and a tantalising trail of hair leading down. He lays his palm on the long rounded shape that's pulling Arthur's breeches to one side, and that should be weird, but it's not, because Arthur drops his head back and groans, and rolls his hips against Merlin's hand, and it just makes him flush all over, yet again. Merlin can feel the  _air_ now, down there between his legs.  
  
“One for one,” he says. “Shall we?”  
  
Arthur lifts off the white linen shift, and Merlin slides the dark-coloured breeches down, and then Arthur cups one of Merlin's breasts in his hand and kisses it, just at the same time Merlin wraps his hand round Arthur's cock, and there's a long glorious moment of skin, pressing against skin, Arthur's mouth caressing him, his hand and Arthur's cock brushing tantalisingly against his thigh.  
  
Merlin lets go of Arthur, puts his hands on his shoulders, pushes him down; brings his body down too, lays himself over Arthur, and rolls his own hips. He must be soaking; the hard ridge of Arthur's cock slides easily, rubbing over the sensitive place at the top, pressing wonderfully against the mouth of the slippery well below. Arthur's looking at him, eyes flashing from his face to where their bodies meet; he's flushed, lips parted, and Merlin realises: this was the look he wanted to see, this was what the spark of passion in Arthur made him want.  
  
He stills; lifts himself up a little.  
  
“Go on,” he says to Arthur.  
  
Arthur reaches down, takes hold of his cock, and fits it against Merlin; they both groan, as Merlin slides himself down onto Arthur, and Arthur puts one hand on his shoulder, and presses completely in.  
  
Arthur starts to move, slowly at first; Merlin closes his eyes, feels Arthur's length inside him, and begins to flex his hips, pushing back at the top of Arthur's stroke until something sparks with pleasure inside. He wants more; he rolls himself down on Arthur more insistently, Arthur is only too happy to oblige. He pulls them further up onto the bed, braces his legs, and begins to thrust in earnest.   
  
Merlin's never felt anything like it in his life. He rides Arthur, grinding himself down on every stroke, as if his body has always known how to do this. When he opens his eyes, Arthur's face is sheened with sweat, his fine hair spreading on the pillow; his hands are on Merlin's arse, holding them together, gripping him tight. Merlin tucks a hand between his legs, presses two fingers against his sensitive spot, and Arthur swears wildly as he suddenly tightens, the pleasure doubling. He doesn't stop getting tighter; Arthur's cock is solid, he feels his body grip it, and the tighter he is, the more every tiny movement wrings pleasure out of him. Arthur's arching his back, holding Merlin so hard he thinks there'll be bruises; for the final moments they rock together, locked tight one into the other, and then Merlin feels his spine roll like a whip-crack as bliss explodes through him. Arthur makes a wild sound and pulls him down hard, half-crushing him as he slams his whole length in and out. Merlin shatters, convulsing in Arthur's arms, every stroke overwhelming his sensitised flesh, and then Arthur's shuddering, and choking back words, and his cock pulses in Merlin, heat flooding out.  
  
  
They lie tangled into one another for what seems like hours; slowly, Merlin drifts down to earth, coming to rest plastered to Arthur's chest, smelling sweat and sex. He thinks it's wonderful.  
  
“You're beautiful,” says Arthur quietly. Merlin sighs.  
  
“I don't want to leave,” he says.  
  
“Then don't,” says Arthur. “Stay.”  
  
“I can't.”  
  
“Come back, then.”  
  
Merlin pauses. “Maybe I can do that,” he says.  
  
Maybe he can, after all.  
  
  
Saying goodbye the next day isn't as awkward as he expected. His little tryst with Arthur seems to have gone beneath Uther's notice, which is nice; he really didn't need a royal talking-to about conniving to get himself pregnant by Arthur, or indeed banishing from the kingdom for being a slut. Arthur himself is lounging in an archway just off the courtyard, his eyes all over Merlin; Merlin tries not to smile too much as he climbs onto his clothes-pony (she smells of soapwort, not horse), and takes the reins from his 'footman'.  
  
“Your man there doesn't say much, does he?” says Morgana's voice. She's standing with Gwen, just off to one side.  
  
“Oh, he's always been a bit wooden,” says Merlin with a smile. You can magic a footman out of a broom, but you can't quite magic the broom out of the footman; both of his attendants have a tendency to stand rather stiffly and stare into space, and they always sound like they're dragging their feet when they walk.  
  
Morgana folds her arms and smirks at him, and Gwen waves. She looks much happier now. Just before he pulls up the hood of his cloak, Merlin glances at Arthur; he looks a little regretful, but there's a definite warmth to his smile. Merlin winks, and Arthur smirks too, and looks away.  
  
 _I'll be back soon, sire_ , he promises silently. The clothes-pony clops and clacks her way out of the courtyard, the footmen brushing along behind, and Merlin and his magical retinue disappear into the trees.  
  
After about half an hour, Merlin glances up and down the road, and takes the clothes-pony off it into a thicket of shrubs. With a few quick words the horse is a wooden one again, ad the footmen shrink and topple over, hitting the ground with a pair of woody clanks. The saddle bags with his own clothes in them are neatly draped over the clothes-horse. Merlin wriggles out of the dark blue dress, leaves the loose shift on, and closes his eyes.  
“ _Wist getrēowan, āweosung weallan_ ,” he says. Everything shivers, and shifts.  
  
And the thing is, when he's got his own familiar breeches and shirt on again, the blue cloth slung round his neck and his beaten-up, third-hand doublet over the top, he looks down, and he almost misses being a girl. He feels topheavy, like this, as if his legs shouldn't hold him up; and he almost misses the dresses, too. He liked the way they were pretty and decorated; no good for working in, but they made him feel gorgeous, in a way his scruffy boy-clothes never do. He wonders how Arthur feels, in his scarlet doublets and polished boots.   
  
And no underwear. There  _are_  bruises on his hips. He can't help letting them swing a bit as he walks back towards Camelot, remembering the night before.   
  
  
He's sitting in Gaius's workroom the next morning, drinking a cup of steaming herb tea, when Arthur swings in and catches sight of him.  
  
“Merlin!” he says, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. “Fit for work again, I see?”  
  
“Oh, more or less,” says Merlin.   
  
“I should think he's raring to go, after all that time flat on his back,” Gaius says, with a knowing glance at Merlin. Merlin narrows his eyes.   
  
“Splendid,” says Arthur, oblivious. “Come along. You can start with turning my chambers out. And my hunting boots still need a clean.”  
  
Merlin matches his stride to Arthur's as they leave. They're the same height again now, give or take, though Merlin still lacks Arthur's sheer bulk.   
  
“I think you should know,” he says innocently, “that Melinna told me everything.”  
  
Arthur's step falters ever so slightly before he picks up his stride again.  
  
“Did she,” he says, in a perfectly neutral tone.  
  
“Oh yes,” says Merlin. “She was quite specific.”  
  
“Was she really,” says Arthur, horror creeping in.  
  
“I hear you've been missing me dreadfully, and complaining nobody else does such a good job.”  
  
“Ah,” says Arthur, a little too loudly. “Of course. I see. Well, I wouldn't pay too much attention to that. She was probably just trying to cheer you up. Comforting you on your sick bed and all that. You know how women are.”  
  
“Probably,” agrees Merlin, grinning. He leans over a little towards Arthur, as they leave the courtyard and go into the east corridor.  
  
“Though she did also say,” he confides, “that you called her Merlin in bed.”  
  
He glances back over his shoulder at Arthur, who's stopped dead in the middle of the hall. His eyes have gone very, very wide.  
  
Merlin grins, and as he walks away towards another day's work, he lets his hips swing, just a little bit.

**Author's Note:**

> Oy. I really can't stay away from the genderfuck, can I. Anyway. The title is from an aphorism popular with ceremonial magicians: "The mage's word is law, and that word must be clear". Just don't ask me how I know that.


End file.
